


Artificially Human

by MadameRed



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Human/Android Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameRed/pseuds/MadameRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a baby, Jean is gifted with a marvelously advanced AI robot named Marco. They live, learn, grow, and love together. But Jean is still only human, with a human lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artificially Human

**Author's Note:**

> Please send all hate to [my tumblr](http://www.zemadame.tumblr.com).

Camille and Elias were somewhat surprised when the tall android stepped out of the crate it had been delivered in. Elias' father, a cantankerous but wealthy man, had apparently decided that he'd rather gift his newborn grandson with the best AI that money could buy over his presence in the child's life. Camille had set her book down and stood, approaching the android and appraising him with wide amber eyes. Elias studied the side of the crate, drawing his hand down his face.

"You're the latest model, aren't you?" he asked, addressing the android.

"Yes and no, master," it responded. Camille breathed a soft noise of awe at its voice. "I am a prototype; my model is not being produced for the public yet." They had heard androids speak before, and nearly all of them sounded mechanic yet, unless they came under the ownership of the especially tech-savvy. Their artificial skin always looked plastic, too perfect. The older models didn't have particularly well refined motor skills. 

Camille shot her husband a pointed look.  _How many strings did your father have to pull to get his hands on this?_

The android, a product of the mega corporation Jinae Robodtics, looked and sounded human on almost every level. Black hair that hung across its forehead was synthetic, but not unrealistic looking. Freckles ( _freckles_  on a  _robot_ ) were splattered across its face, and even down its arms. Its brown eyes were bright and its lips appropriately pink. Camille stepped up to it. "May I?" she asked, extending her hand toward its arm.

"Of course, mistress," it responded. "You need not ask." Camille settled her hand on its arm, her eyes widening and lips puckering in surprise. Its skin was  _warm_ , like human flesh, and soft. She squeezed it lightly; there was even a layer of muscle-like cushion before she felt the hard titanium of his skeleton. 

"You're a marvel," she whispered. 

"You are pleased, mistress? Master?" it asked, swiveling its head to look at Elias, blinking in question. Elias nodded, still reeling.

"Uh, you can call us by name. Elias," he said, placing his hand on his chest, then pointing at his wife, "and Camille. What do we call you?"

"Whatever name pleases you, Elias," it answered with a smile. (Camille gazed inquisitively at it, wondering how advanced its AI was if it knew when a smile was approapriate. She noted that its teeth were white, but not blindingly so. She chewed on her lip; it would take a little while to get used to this android, looking so human as it did.) 

"Did you have a name at-" Elias flapped a hand weakly, somehow afraid of offending an android that was programmed to not be offended, "where you were, ah, assembled?" 

"The chief engineer often referred to me as Marco several times," it offered. Camille patted her husband's arm. 

"Marco suits it, don't you think?" She quickly brought her fingers to her lips. "Oh. 'It' sounds rude, doesn't it?"

"Technically I am nonbinary; 'it' is not incorrect. However, I am modeled after a human male, so if referring to me as 'he' makes you more comfortable, then it would make me happy if you did so," Marco answered. (Camille briefly wondered if it - he - could feel true happiness; had AI really come so far?) 

Elias nodded, glancing down at his wife. He shrugged, then looked back up at Marco. "So, um... we've never owned an android," he began. "What do you, uh, do, exactly?"

"Anything you require of me," Marco offered. Elias thought back to the note that had been given to him upon delivery. Among the far-too-formal words typed out by his father's secretary, he remembered reading that the android within was to be "Jean's first friend". Oddly sentimental, coming from his stony father, but this was probably his own justification for staying out of the child's life.

"I believe you were intended for our son, but he's only a month old," Elias said. Marco nodded.

"I have been programmed with advanced childcare techniques, initialized, tested, and certified by the Board of Children's Health and Mental Wellness." He produced a small book from the breast pocket of his shirt and held it out to Elias. "You will find an index of my certifications, signed and dated by their respective boards and overseers." 

Elias flipped through the book, positioning it between himself and Camille. His credentials were impressive: in addition to childcare, he also appeared to be an electrician, a mathematics expert, a linguist, a five-star chef, and a plethora of other wondrous things that would earn him quite a lot of money if androids were permitted to work. Camille gripped at her husband's arm; he was tense under her touch, and she knew that he was aware of exactly what she was thinking. Things were changed now. Things could be good again.

"Then," Camille began, "would you like to meet our son?" Marco smiled, and she swore she saw his eyes brighten, much like the brightening she'd see in Elias whenever he looked at Jean.

"Very much," he agreed warmly. 

She led him into Jean's room, decorated in warm golds and browns and greens. The curtains were drawn and the mobile above the crib bathed the small infant in soft light. Elias hovered back by the door, and Camille and Marco approached the crib. Marco peered inside and gazed down at the sleeping child. He slept on his back, his little arms up by his head, hands curled into fists that were smaller than a golf ball. He was bald but for a few wisps of soft, pale hair. Slowly, tentatively (and aware that Camille tensed up slightly beside him), he lowered a hand into the crib and gently brushed one finger across the baby's warm cheek. The touch was light, barely enough to graze the fine hair on the skin, and the sleeping child remained blissfully undisturbed.

"His name is Jean," Camille provided quietly. 

"Hello, Jean," Marco whispered, a small smile on his artificial face. "Nice to meet you; I'm Marco."

\---

"How many more do you think we need?" Jean asked, holding onto Marco's hand as they wandered to the next tree. Marco looked down at the basket of apples, quickly analyzing them against the pies that Camille said she'd wanted to bake for the local library's Thanksgiving weekend party. They had enough, but Marco wasn't going to tell Jean just yet. The five year old was tugging him along to the next tree, pointing excitedly and smiling, wide and bright. Marco crouched down and picked the boy up easily, grinning to himself as Jean squealed with delight, looping his arms around the android's neck.

"It's getting dark; how about we pick this last tree clean and then head back home?" Marco suggested. Jean nodded his consent and then scrabbled his way to seat himself on Marco's shoulders. Marco stepped up beneath a low hanging branch, drawing himself to his full height. Jean disappeared into the foliage, cackling gleefully and yanking ferociously on the apples. He simply let them fall, knowing that Marco would have the basket below them instantly. After clearing three branches, Jean yawned loudly, slumping forward over Marco's head. The android reached up and rested a hand against Jean's shin.

"Getting sleepy?" He felt Jean nod against him, his small chin bumping against his forehead. With a twist, Marco brought Jean down from his shoulders, fitting his arm beneath the boy's bottom and holding him to his chest. Jean snuggled right into him, clutching at his shirt with his tiny fists. With a small smile, Marco turned and began walking home. He shifted the handle of the basket so that it rested in the crook of his arm, and brought his now free hand up to settle against Jean's back. Jean squirmed and reached for Marco's hand, grasping it in his own and drawing it to his chest. He cradled it like he would a doll, gently running his soft, pudgy fingers across Marco's skin. When he spoke, his words were barely audible, not much more than a scrap of a whisper,

"I love you, Marco."

Marco's face softened, as it so often did when Jean was involved, and he pressed a kiss to Jean's temple. He hummed quietly, a soft lullaby that he'd learned from Elias. He was sure he'd learned to love, just as he'd learned (the hard way) that babies, for no sound reason, will sometimes scream, even when all of their needs are met. He was sure that he loved Jean, but he did not know if he was meant to. He was mechanical, after all. A robot. His artificial intelligence was marvelously advanced, he knew, but had it gone that far? Marco sometimes forgot that he wasn't human. 

He smiled to himself. It didn't matter; Jean didn't care one way or the other, and it was often said that small children were the only honest people left in the world. And Jean was his world, so he'd just have to follow the boy's lead.

\---

"I  _still_  don't see why you can't just home school me. You know everything, don't you?" Jean complained. Marco reclined back on Jean's bed, opening the book he'd plucked from the shelf. His brow was quirked in amusement, though he didn't look at Jean. 

"It's your final year of high school, Jean. You've made it eleven years thus far, I think you can trudge through one more," he consoled. "And I don't know everything."

"More than Mr. Pixis. He's crazy," Jean groused. "And I'd swear on my life he's got brandy in that old thermos."

"If I had to teach some of your classmates, I'd probably drink, too," Marco mused. "I already do your homework ninety-three-point-six-three percent of the time, I don't know what you're complaining about." Jean flapped his mouth wordlessly, playfully mocking the android, and dropped down next to him on the bed. He rolled onto his back and craned his head around to look at the book.

"That one  _again_?" 

Marco peered over the side of the book, his eyes narrowed. "Oh, you mean this one, the one that you,  _again_ , told me you weren't going to read?" he shot back.

"Sassy," Jean grumbled. Marco smiled smugly to himself and nestled back into the pillows, returning his attention to his book. Jean wriggled under his blankets and pillowed his head on his hands, staring up at the constellation-accurate glow in the dark stars that he and Marco had put up when he was eight. His gaze shifted to his dresser, where the various pictures of him and Marco sat in their frames, mixed with his tennis trophies and his Xenomorph figurine collection. He rolled over, facing Marco but looking past him at his desk. His iPod was plugged into his laptop, charging. His laptop was plugged into the wall. His alarm clock was plugged into the wall, resting on his nightstand, its bright red numbers beginning to glow more vividly in the dimming light of the room. He glanced at Marco and shuffled closer, curling against the android's side. 

"Hey, Marco."

"Mm?" 

"Do you charge your batteries at night?" 

Marco looked up from the book sharply, blinking rapidly. He looked at Jean and tilted his head to the side, confused. He chuckled lightly, closing the book and setting it on the nightstand. Jean pouted.

"I'm being serious! I've never asked, 'cause I thought it was kinda... I dunno, personal?" he mumbled. Marco scooted down in the bed, twisting onto his side so that he was facing Jean.

"Yes, I do." Jean's eyes widened, a small smile of wonder quirking the corners of his lips up.

"Y-you do? How come I've never seen your plug? Is it in your hair or something?" Marco shook his head. "Then where?"

"My butt," the android said seriously. Jean fixed him with a deadpan gaze, and Marco laughed.

"Can you unlearn humour, you glorified tin-can?" he grumbled. 

"I don't think you want me to. Have your father tell you about the awful jokes I used to tell; you'd disassociate yourself from me completely," Marco replied with a grin.

"But seriously-"

"That's what I said."

"You're an idiot." Jean flipped over, turning his back on Marco and burrowing further into the blankets. Marco turned onto his back, lifting his hand and staring at it. 

"I came with a flat disc, about as thick as your iPod and a little larger in circumference than my hand. That's my charging pad. For convenience sake, it can plug into any electrical socket in the home," he said. Jean turned over, rolling onto his side so that he faced Marco once more. "Because of the radioactive properties of the plutonium at my core, I only need to recharge every hundred years." He twisted his hand in the air, wriggling his fingers. "I just plug the disc in and place my hand on it; I'll go catatonic for a day or so, but I'll retain all memories and skills when my cognitive senses are activated again. In the event that my body is damaged and my hand is unable to confer the charge, the disc came with a cable that can be fitted into the slight indent at the top of my spine."

Jean's gaze hadn't left Marco's face, and it remained there as he reached up and took the android's tanned hand into his pale one. He pressed his fingers gently into his palm and drew Marco's hand down, holding it to his chest. He folded Marco's fingers at the second knuckle, closing both of his hands around it. He felt heat flood his cheeks and he rolled into Marco's shoulder, not releasing his hold on his hand. 

"Good," he whispered, his voice somewhat raspy with emotion. Smiling softly, Marco turned back onto his side, careful to keep his hand right where Jean wanted it. Almost tentatively, he placed his free arm around Jean's shoulder. Jean gave his hand a small squeeze, and within a few moments, his breathing evened out and he began to fall asleep. Setting an internal alarm so that he could rouse Jean from slumber for school in the morning, Marco turned off his sensors and fell into his version of sleep. His last registered thought was that he wished he could dream, for then he wouldn't have to leave Jean, even for the night.

\---

"Jean, don't you have a date tonight?" Marco reminded him. Jean scowled, placing his gun and badge on his nightstand and unbuttoning the collar on his uniform shirt. He glanced at the pair of loose sweatpants and dingy t-shirt he'd laid out with the intent to change into.

"Canceled it." Marco sighed.

"You've been mooning over her since your academy days. She finally breaks up with her boyfriend and you ask her out. She says yes and," he paused to rub the bridge of his nose, "you cancel."

"Yeah, so?" Jean grunted. 

"You're going to have to throw me a bone here, Jean. I know a lot, but I'm not a psychiatrist," Marco said as soothingly as he could. "You've been peculiar lately and I am growing concerned." Jean tugged the sweatpants up, casting a glare at Marco and then yanking his shirt over his head. 

"You're  _concerned_?" Jean nearly hissed. "Can't you just turn that off or something?" When he popped his head through the collar of the shirt, he looked at Marco and was immediately overcome by a sense of regret. The android, his oldest ( _only_ ) friend and constant companion, wore an expression of genuine hurt feelings. It was at times like these, when Jean's lack of filter shone brightest, that he remembered that Marco possessed artificial intelligence; he was a learning robot. He did feel, and it seemed like Jean only remembered this once he forgot that he wasn't supposed to be a jerk. With a sigh, Jean pressed his palms into his eyes and dropped onto his bed. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he groaned. Half a moment passed in silence, and then Jean felt the bed depress beside him. He pressed his forehead against Marco's shoulder, reaching out for his hand and guiding it to his chest. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"You weren't," Marco said lightly. "You do that sometimes." Jean snorted in affirmation. "Why did you cancel your date?" he asked quietly. 

"I don't know," Jean almost whined. Marco's lips twitched up in a half-smile. "I just thought.. what if we hit it off? What if we go really great together, and we move in together, and get married, and have kids, and-"

"All that from one impending date?" Marco mused, not unkindly. 

"If only that was what really freaked me out," Jean muttered. "I thought, what about Marco? It wouldn't just be us anymore, and I don't know if I could share you, I don't know..." he choked slightly, unable to finish his sentence.

"You don't know what?" murmured the android. Upon sensing the distress in Jean's voice, he'd begun rubbing small circles on his back. 

"I don't know if I could love someone that's not you," Jean whispered, refusing to lift his head from Marco's shoulder and remaining stiff as a board. Marco squeezed Jean's hand lightly, his other hand stalling on the small of his back.

"You love others, Jean. Your parents and your friends," he soothed. Jean shook his head against Marco's shoulder and mumbled something that even Marco's enhanced ears couldn't decipher. "Hm? I didn't-"

"Oh, Christ," Jean breathed, sounding somewhat flustered at himself. Within the next second, he picked his head up and pressed his lips to Marco's, his eyes pinching shut. Marco didn't move, sitting still and wide-eyed, his lips puckering against Jean's out of surprise. Jean's grip on his hand intensified, and he pressed it further into his own chest as he disconnected their lips with a soft pop. "I don't love my parents like  _that_."

He stood quickly, carding a hand through his hair and turning away from Marco before he could get a good look at his face, which was sure to be painted with confusion and disgust. He paced away from the bed. "I'm a piece of trash, I know. I'm acting like this and feeling these  _stupid things_  and I don't even know if you  _can_  fall in love, but I just dumped it on you anyway because I don't think before I act, ever, and it's probably going to be the thing that kills me sooner rather than later and I - hey!" Marco spun Jean around, steadying him with his hands planted firmly on his shoulders. The android reached for Jean's hand and held it gently, and then pressed the back of his own hand against Jean's chest again. 

"I can learn," he murmured. His eyes drifted from their hands up to make contact with Jean's, and he smiled.

\---

A week later, Jean applied for a transfer to a precinct two states away. He kept his modus operandi tightly under wraps until they opened the door to his new house and dropped the first box inside. Then, in full view of the local moving company's employees, Jean grabbed Marco's face and kissed him with a smile. 

_(They don't have to know, here. We can start over, and be together.)_

\---

"Three officers were killed and four others are in critical condition after this afternoon's terrorist bombing at the Littlefield Public Library's K9 Unit Appreciation Day-"

The glass pitcher of sun-tea slipped from Marco's hand, shattering as it hit the kitchen tile and soaking his shoes and the bottoms of his pants. He staggered toward the small television on the counter and gripped the sides of it with shaking hands. 

"-air lifted to Mercy Maria Hospital-"

Marco spun around, not requiring any further information from the only-mildly-distressed reporter. He sprinted out of the kitchen, slamming into a wall as he slipped on the spilled tea and failed to cut a curve sharply enough. He grabbed the keys to his car from the plaque they hung from and skidded into the foyer just as the front door was clicking shut.

A singed, sooty, bloody, and bruised Jean had staggered into the house, gripping at the stairwell railing. His left cheek was scraped up, with what looked like gravel embedded into it. Most of his navy blue uniform shirt had been burned away, and his white undershirt was blacked around the edges of the hole in it, where his blistered skin showed through. His knuckles and fingers were bloody, as were his knees. His hair and face were both grey with rubble dust and ash, and smeared with blood. 

Marco was before him in record time, strong arms wrapping around his waist (and not loosening his grip even as Jean cried out in pain) just as Jean's left leg gave out. Jean's fingers dug into the back of Marco's shirt, and he buried his head into his chest. One of Marco's hands left his waist to gently cradle the back of Jean's head, his fingers gliding through the coarse dust in his hair. Jean held on tighter, unable to support himself, unable to prevent his tears from clearing the dust from his cheeks and burning the open wounds. He drew in a shuddering breath, removing one of his hands from Marco's back and covering his mouth with it, attempting to muffle his sobs. 

Shifting one of his arms, Marco situated it beneath Jean's rear and lifted him easily, his other hand sliding to his upper back. Pressing a gentle kiss to Jean's neck, he turned and carried him through their house. He passed through their bedroom and toed open the door to their master bathroom. With one final caress to the back of Jean's head, Marco set him down gently on the lidded toilet seat. He started the tap, allowing the water to heat up, and pulled out clean wash cloths from the cupboard. He then fetched the first aid kit from the linen closet, and began to draw a hot bath as well.

He dipped the end of a cloth into the hot water collected in the sink, then turned to Jean. Placing a finger beneath his chin, he gently tilted his head up. Marco's eyes met Jean's watery ones, and then Jean's hand came up to clutch desperately at Marco's wrist. Marco's thumb traced over Jean's uninjured cheek, and he smiled weakly at him. He leaned down and kissed Jean; Jean, in turn, poured everything he was feeling into the kiss. He whimpered pitifully and stood abruptly, avoiding putting weight onto his left leg. Marco caught him as he all but fell into his chest. Their kiss broke only for a moment, but Jean's mouth sought Marco's again immediately. He gripped the collar of Marco's shirt, holding him there and kissing him more forcefully. Marco indulged him for a moment, then gently prised his lips away and loosened the grip his fingers had on his shirt. 

"Let me take care of you first," he whispered. Gulping in a breath of air, Jean nodded once and allowed Marco to lower him back onto the toilet lid. 

(That night, Marco made breakfast for dinner and held Jean as he wept over the deaths of his friends. Jean was exhausted, but far too wound up to sleep. Marco propped him comfortably on their bed, surrounded by the warmth of their plush pillows and blankets, and lazily worked him open with two slick fingers. He sucked him off until Jean was thrusting slowly into his mouth; Marco never quickened the pace, taking his time to ensure that every inch of Jean's cock received the attention it deserved. Jean finally came, curling in on himself, a wrecked sob caught in his throat. 

He slept until two o'clock in the afternoon the next day.)

\---

While in vacation in Las Vegas, Jean used his badge to extort a fake ID for Marco out of a mouthy kid with bright green eyes and a truly spectacular mohican. Laughing and clinging to one another like love-struck teenagers, they stumbled into a chapel on Main Street and exchanged hasty vows. The proceedings were lorded over by, naturally, Elvis Presley. They kissed beneath a tacky plastic arch with fat little cupid ornaments hanging from it. Elvis threw confetti, they signed the certificate, and then Jean convinced Marco to cheat at the craps table. When they finally made it back to their hotel room, Marco slipped into a pair of green lace panties with a matching garter belt, black stockings and emerald pumps, and a green and black chemise with lace cutouts on the sides. They fucked twice that night before Jean finally passed out, and he woke up in the morning to Marco hovering over him with a greasy cheeseburger from Checkers and a set of matching white-gold wedding bands.

\---

They (Jean, technically, was the one signing all of the papers) adopted a little girl named Sasha. She was six when they brought her into their home, and called Jean 'da' and Marco 'papa'. Jean, after eleven years on the force, finally decided to remove himself to a safer job and passed his tests to be a detective. His old K9 partner also retired, and Jean adopted him as well. Marco and Sasha cooked up a storm together, and Jean was able to prop his feet up at the end of the day with his dog at his side.

\---

Sasha went to culinary school on the other side of the country after she graduated high school. Jean fell into a melancholy, as the house was silent without Sasha and her usual entourage of cackling friends. (Christa still occasionally stopped by with some sort of lovely confectionery, and they would invite her to stay for dinner.) Marco surprised him with a trip to Thailand; they spent ten days in tropical bliss, and when they came back, Marco had arranged for the basement to be completely refurbished (as it had previously had chipped paneling and dingy, orange shag carpeting, both from the seventies). Warm chocolates, deep reds, and inviting beiges made up their basement now, which Jean had always seen as a sanctuary of sorts. 

(They christened the new couch the day they got back, and then had to go out and buy stain remover to erase the evidence of their enthusiasm.)

\---

Jean aged gracefully, for which he was eternally grateful. Despite the regular late night Taco Bell trips (that had to stop in his sixties, when he began developing heartburn), he was healthy and strong, and was wont to pounding his chest with his fist and claiming that his "ticker was in sound shape". His brain was often leagues ahead of his body, however, and he found himself requiring Marco's assistance more often than not. At eighty-four, though, he was still sharp as a tack. 

"Are you sure you're okay, da? Papa said you nearly fell down the stairs yesterday," Sasha admonished over the phone one day. She lived in the south, deep frying everything she could get her hands on and enjoying a lucrative job as the head chef of a popular restaurant. 

"Ah, pooh on him. I missed  _one_  step and that old phonograph nearly loses his bolts over me," Jean grumbled, flexing the fingers on his free hand to stave off the pain of his rheumatism. 

"You know he's just looking after you," she chastised. "Since you seem incapable of looking after yourself."

"Pooh on you, too, you little imp. You 'n Marco worry about me too much," he said, his voice softening with affection.

"You're no spring chicken anymore, da. I'm just glad you've got papa there for you," she said. 

"Yeah, me too," Jean mumbled fondly. 

After hanging up with his daughter, Jean pushed himself out of his favourite old armchair and wandered into the kitchen. Marco was dumping a can of corn into a pot to heat up, and then he twisted his head to look at Jean.

"How's Sasha?" he asked.

"Feisty as ever," Jean replied. "Did you  _have_  to tell her about the stairs?" Marco side-eyed him with a small grin.

"Why Jean, you know I don't keep secrets from our beloved Sasha," he quipped. He set the burner to low and wiped his hands on a towel. Jean rolled his eyes, shuffling over to the oven inset into the wall and peering into it. A tender rump roast was cooking in its own juices within. Arms wrapped around him from behind, and he instinctively drew one of Marco's hands up to his chest. He ran his wrinkled thumb over the smooth, tanned skin that hadn't changed one freckle over the years, and he sighed.

Marco looked the same as he always did. He was an android, and as such was unmarked by the passage of time; no laughter lines, no worry-wrinkles, no stress creases. His face was still young and beautiful, perfectly tanned and freckled and warm. Jean gave his hand a slight squeeze.

"Stop thinking about it," Marco murmured against the soft skin of his neck. 

"People think I'm your sugar daddy," Jean informed him. "And that you're a gold digger." Marco sighed.

"I was wondering when this day would come," he lamented. 

"Eh?"

"I was hoping you'd never figure it out, Jean. I've only ever been interested in you for your money. I grow closer to the culmination of my conquest with each passing year," he announced, mimicking the voice of Dr. Evil.

"Dumbass."

"I could go back to those bad jokes," Marco offered. 

"How about you just go back to cooking? I'm starving; I can't live off of motor oil, unlike some people I know," Jean groused, twisting in Marco's arms. With a smile, Marco took Jean's face in his hands and kissed him soundly. Jean returned it, squeezing Marco's wrists. When they pulled back, Marco caressed his cheeks with his thumbs, staring into Jean's bright amber eyes. 

"I'll come get you when dinner's ready," he offered. As Jean detached himself from his husband and made to leave the kitchen, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Marco pinched his ass. He turned and narrowed his eyes at him playfully, smirking when Marco winked at him before turning back to stir the corn. Shaking his head, Jean left to return to his armchair. 

Fifteen minutes later, Marco was basting the roast when he heard the loud thud. Dropping the baster into the pan and leaving the oven door open, he bolted from the kitchen and tore through the house, looking for Jean. At the end of the hall is where Marco found him, crumpled and lying in a puddle of his own urine. The android fell to his knees, lifting Jean's head into his lap.

"Jean!  _Jean!_ " What had been intended as a shout came out as a broken and desperate plea. Jean blinked unevenly, slowly, his eyes rolling to rest on Marco's panicked face.

"Mmm," he mumbled. "Mmaah-"

"Shh." Marco clutched at Jean's hand, pulled Jean up further into his lap despite knowing that he probably shouldn't be moving him at all. "I'm here, it's okay. You're okay, I'm here," he assured, his voice a harsh whisper. He knew he should get to a phone, call the paramedics. He knew he had to get Jean to a hospital. He also knew that it would do no good, now.

"Mm-arco," Jean slurred. A hoarse sob broke free from Marco's throat, his face contorting. "L..ove." Marco doubled over, clenching his eyes shut and touching his forehead to Jean's. He gripped Jean's hand, probably too hard (but he doubted Jean could feel it anymore). 

"I love you, Jean," he moaned brokenly. "I love you, I love you, I-" He choked. There was a weight on his chest, a constriction in his throat that threatened to remove his ability to speak. He knew that this was pain, knew that this was the gut-wrenching agony that humans dealt with on a daily basis. This is what Camille felt when Elias died. This is what Jean felt as he buried both of his parents, and countless fellow officers. He knew that this day would arrive, he just hadn't realized that he would feel quite so mortal when it did.

Then he noticed it. The distinct absence of breath on his cheek.

Marco pulled back. Jean's glassy amber eyes still flicked back and forth, trained on him. Saliva dribbled from his mouth, which still twitched slightly. With a frantic cry, Marco reached around to the back of Jean's neck, searching for the indentation that he knew wouldn't be there. Rational thought fled from him as he pressed hard at Jean's neck; his other hand took Jean's and he flattened their palms together.

"Please, please, please," he moaned in anguish. He knew he couldn't, he knew it was an impossibility, but if he could just transfer some of his energy, some of his life force, to Jean, then maybe, just maybe..

Marco's eyes fell back to Jean's face. Those bright eyes were still, his mouth hung slack. There was no movement; there was no life. 

"No, no, no," he mourned, the word falling from his lips like an unholy mantra. He took Jean's hand and pressed it against his own chest, curling in on himself. His mouth fell open and a coarse, broken cry ripped its way from his throat. The tightness in his throat made it physically painful, but he wailed again, and again. He felt that, if he'd been able to cry, it would have helped to mitigate that pain.

As Marco held Jean's hand to his chest, rocking back and forth on his knees, he thought that maybe he wasn't as human as he'd been pretending; not if he couldn't even weep.

\---

Sixteen years later, Sasha found Marco in her beloved da's old armchair. A picture of his family, of Jean and Sasha and of himself, sat in his lap, the fingers of one hand reverently resting upon the edges. He was cold and lifeless.

His charging pad lay untouched at the bottom of his nightstand, covered in a layer of dust. 

Gone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i am trash i have no excuse for this.
> 
> am i kicked out of the fandom yet?


End file.
